


Personal Space

by Lady_Talla_Doe



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: M/M, inappropriate sexual thoughts, it's the closet trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 18:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Talla_Doe/pseuds/Lady_Talla_Doe
Summary: The mission went to shit, and they're stuck in a small closet until rescue arrives.It's straining Fancy's serenity.





	Personal Space

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write stuff for Turin and intend to throw him into many cliche dilemmas.

* * *

* * *

_"Move your leg,"_ Turin muttered, then hissed "_Down_, Fancy! Get your knee out of my crotch!"  
The taller Killjoy shifted awkwardly, trying to find a place to put his knee that wasn't jammed right into Turin.  
"I said _move it,_ Fancy," Turin growled.   
"I'm trying, there _isn't room_." Fancy whispered, surrendering to the reality that they were stuck; he was stuck, with his attractive, _angry_ commander pressed inappropriately close. He shifted his knee slightly down, and his shoulders ached. But for a moment, Turin was no longer riding his thigh.

The closet was small; it fit the two of them, barely, but not side by side. Every shudder of the damaged ship knocked Fancy's shoulder again the far wall, and Turin against him.

When they had dove into it, it was because the schematics had said it was the closest room that would retain its air. There hadn't been a lot of time, and a door with a seal and an air vent were the most important details.  
Standing room had been a distant second.

But now they were squeezed into a tiny, locked room, stuck face to face. And Fancy's arms were starting to go numb from being braced for so long.

Turin took up the space between Fancy's braced arms. He couldn't see his expression, since that would mean lowering his head, and currently he was trying not to think about how close they were, and how certain parts of him were reacting inappropriately.

It was like the redhead was a porcupine, and he was straining desperately to keep himself away from the quills.

Fancy did not have a thing for getting stabbed in the dick. He absolutely was not going to let that happen.

But it was hard to ignore Turin; when they took a breath at the same time, their jackets brushed. He could feel the heat off of him, warming the cold air between them.

Could feel the wind of his breath.   
Plus, there really was no place to put his knee but between Turin's. He set his jaw, and forced his mind away from the firmness of Turin's legs, away from the heat of his hand, braced in the middle of Fancy's chest.

Damn it, why couldn't he _just_ be frightened by life or death situations.

_You are not a dog,_ Fancy told himself firmly, _you will not rut again his leg._

Then the ship lurched, and they slammed backwards. His shoulders hit the wall hard, hand flying out to scrabble at the wall, as Turin fell heavily into his chest with a curse.

They froze, Turin's hands on his chest, Fancy holding him there with one arm as the ship rolled and shivered.

_Not horny_, he thought viciously.   
Thank the trees, his cock actually listened, softening in the face of possible death.

At least with Turin leaning on him, cursing out their luck, his arms wouldn't hurt so much.

"When we get to Westerly, I am going to get _very_ drunk." Said Fancy, when the scream of damaged metal died down.

There was a soft huff, and he could feel Turin's words again his shirt when he spoke,   
"First round is on me."


End file.
